


The Next Room

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Series: On Tacit Grounds [3]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, M/M, Polyamory, Post-Series, Sibling Incest (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4153797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each time, she understands a bit more when it should be the most impossible notion to cope with. (Post-series, alternate canon)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Room

She feels like crying.

They’re in the next room and she feels like crying. Not because they’re in the next room, but because she let them be in the next room; because it doesn’t disgust her as much as it should; because she can understand; because it’s not the first time it’s happened, it won’t be the last, and each time, she understands a bit more when it should be the most impossible notion to cope with.

Because it turns her on that they’re in the next room.

She doesn’t know what they’re doing — she doesn’t want to know — but the gist of it is pretty obvious. Michael told her once it wasn’t _like that_ but from the muffled sounds coming from the next room, it sure sounds as if it is _like that_. She knows how both of them sound when it’s _like that_ , after all, doesn’t she?

Sara leans into the too-thin wall, her ear pressed against it. She feels stupid to do that, but she can handle stupid. Stupid is the least of her concerns, right now. She makes out the rustle of clothes, whispers and gasps that she can’t possibly hear, and occasional groans that are very real. Vivid imagination meeting reality.

She could get out of the bedroom and into the hallway, take a look in the next room and see what they are doing, how they’re doing it, who does what to whom. They’ve left the door ajar. Maybe as a token of good faith that it’s not _like that_ ; maybe as a token of trust; maybe because they think that if she does want to know, she’s entitled to it.

She feels like screwing. To be banged, to be accurate. She attributes it to the warm and moist air, the sultry afternoon that has forced them to close the shutters and the curtains, and renders the fan lazily whirling above her head close to useless. It’s her imagination playing tricks once again because of course no, it has nothing to do with the warm and moist air or the sultry afternoon, and everything with whatever is going on in the next room. She feels like lying back on the bed, or maybe be (not so) gently thrown across it and fucked mercilessly. Until she aches and is a mess and can’t move anymore. She feels like having her unbecoming arousal fucked out of her.

It’s going be an issue. Michael won’t do it. Michael rarely does it that way in the first place. After it’s not been _like that_ , he always makes love to her as if there was no tomorrow — selfless and passionate, making her boneless and having her moaning shamelessly — but it’s never the good hard, nasty, fucking she’d like today. Guilt, gratitude, misplaced respect, a mix of all three, go figure. It doesn’t solve her current problem: no good hard fucking upcoming.

Maybe she should ask Lincoln? He sure went eagerly to his knees for her once, his tongue lapping at her to seal an unspoken deal. But Lincoln can hardly meet her eyes after he’s done whatever he does with Michael. He’d probably be nicer and more careful than his brother; in other words, worse and even more off the mark than his brother.

She pushes her hand between her thighs, her fingers getting slick with wet heat, and comes embarrassingly fast. It only takes a bit of the edge away.

She doesn’t leave Michael a choice, that night. Maybe that’s the issue she’s had until now; giving Michael a choice. She straddles his face and rubs down; when he’s given her everything he can and everything she needs that way, she rolls onto her back and drags him on top of her. He frowns and whispers “Sara...” in that velvety tone of his when she demands that he screws her already.

He has a large bruise on his left shoulder, likely from when Lincoln held onto him this afternoon. She bites the bruise, adds to the pain, and is satisfied only when he watches her with shocked eyes, dark-with-lust eyes; he shoves into her without a second thought.

“I liked hearing you two, today,” she confesses breathlessly.

The taboo, the forbidden relationship, their unsaid outrageous arrangement, all of this comes into play. The visuals too, even though she truly doesn’t want to know what they’re doing and merely fancy-pictures it when in the grip of her craziest lust, when she’s chasing after her release like she was today. Yet that’s only a part of the explanation. The other one is the knowledge that Michael needs this. It’s a calculated sacrifice from all three of them, one they each draws benefit from one way or another.

She’s wrapped and pulsating around him, her skin flushed and glossy with perspiration. Her orgasm from earlier is a distant memory already and wasn’t _enough_ in the first place anyway.

Michael smiles gently at her and kisses her, and she swears that if he reverts back into that sweet—

“I think you more than _liked_ it, didn’t you?”

There’s nothing gentle or sweet in the way he pulls her thighs higher around his waist and drives into her.

She throws her head back into the pillows and closes her eyes, presses her calves against his flanks and digs her nails into his back. That’s more like it. That’s all she wants and needs, and she eggs him on with rolls of hips and throaty pants, reveling into his carefully harsh thrusts until she forgets where her arousal came from.

END

\--Comments and/or kudos are always welcome and appreciated :)


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